Redemption
by Eternity's Fenris
Summary: A Book 3 fic brought over from SFF because of their prudish laws.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

The Sun Also Rises

The moon was high above her in the sky, making its slow crawl through the night air. She spared a glimpse at its progression before urging her aching, tired calf muscles into motion again. Legs pumping, her lithe little feet pounded the sand soundlessly, heart thumping like the drums of Ellesmera on the festival nights.

Her eyelids slid closed over her emerald eyes, her heartbeat urging her to quicken her gait. This was what she needed – to run, to run and to think without the stench of death stinging her nostrils.

Arya Drottningu was unsure how far she had run, but the moon was nearly sinking behind the plains of sand by the time she paused. Falling to her knees, she glanced upward at the moon, allowing herself a moment of weakness. The Battle at the Burning Plains was over, but much was still to be resolved. The elves had yet to arrive, Hrothgar had to be taken back to Farthen Dur to be buried, there was the issue of the third dragon egg, not to mention Roran and his people had joined them, and…

Arya's eyes closed as she lay back on the sand, feeling the cool granulates against the bare skin of her arms. _And there is Eragon, _she finished mentally with a sigh. She shifted slightly, the kid leather of her sleeveless jerkin whispering with the motion. The boy was trying his damnedest to appear nonchalant, as if he did not care so much for her anymore. But it was in his eyes. He truly _adored_ her…

_And what do I do in return? _She thought to herself scathingly. _I ignore him, pretend he does not exist; pretend that I do not notice his feelings. But what right does he have to push and push and demand I let him in? He is but a boy! …And he is Alagaesia's savior._

She felt a presence coming toward her, one of unsound mind and wavering constitution. She glanced over at her left hand, where the presence was indecisively teetering from one pair of legs to another. Her hand twitched, a small movement of finger, and the animal was suddenly alert. The scorpion at her hand raised its tail, readying to strike.

Arya wanted to lash out at the thing with her power, to scare it the way she had been scared during the battle… But she knew better than that. This creature did not know how she suffered; did not know her life. It was simply trying to live the only way it knew how.

Just like Arya.

Sickened by the thought, Arya moved her hand away from the scorpion, throwing the invertebrate into confusion. She was living the same way she had lived for years; pretending not to let the thoughts or hatred of others bother her, pretending that she was mentally ready for everything… and most of all, pretending as if her life held some special value.

"We are so alike, you and I," she murmured to the scorpion as she gently touched its hazy mind, urging it to go elsewhere. It turned on its little legs, making its way in the other direction.

After an hour of watching the moon wane, Arya sat up. She ran a hand through her long hair, shaking grains of sand out of it, before getting to her feet. She turned toward the West, inhaling the fresh scent of oncoming morning. Once again, she burst into a sprint – this time, however, she was not running from her life. She was running _to_ it.

…

The camp was alive with movement by the time Arya returned. The men standing on guard duty followed her body with their eyes; Arya pretended not to notice. These men had not seen women outside of herself, Trianna Angela, and Nasuada for a long time. She could allow them a few moments' glance. After all, many of these men fought beside her in the battle, covering her and helping her in her mission to protect their small rebellion.

She had only been in the camp for about two minutes when a young, fresh-faced human sentry approached her. "Lady Drottningu?" he asked. Before she could answer, he bowed deeply to her. "The Lady Nasuada requests your presence."

"Is it a private meeting?" Arya questioned, already anticipating his ignorance as to the subject matter of Nasuada's conference. It was not as if common sentries were told the matters of Rulers and such.

He surprised her, however, by murmuring, "Rider Eragon is there, as well, and I remember seeing his dark-haired cousin with them."

Arya nodded. "Thank you. I will be there presently." She watched as the sentry bowed again before turning back to his duties. Arya took a deep breath, steadying herself. She resolved to be cheerful from now on; if not cheerful, then at least more pleasant than she had been previously.

When she entered the large tent, however, her thoughts seemed to cease for a long moment. Nasuada's eyes were red and puffy – no doubt from a long night of crying – but her composure was absolute. Eragon was more collected, yet sadness shone on his face like a beacon, accenting the worry lines that traced his tanned brow.

He stepped away from the table he had been leaning on and Roran, previously unnoticed, stood quickly. Where his cousin bowed, Eragon placed his fingertip to his lips, murmuring, _"Atra esterní ono thelduin,"_ without much conviction.

Arya sighed. She wished to tell him that these things were hardly necessary, but remembered her vow to herself. _You will be _positive_, Arya. Remember?_

Touching her own fingers to her mouth, she returned, _"Mor'ranr lífa unin hjarta onr."_

Arya did not wait for Eragon to finish with, _"Un du evarínya ono varda." _Instead she turned to Nasuada, forcing a small tweak of her lips. "You called me, my Lady?"

Nasuada nodded, her royal brow creasing as she regarded the elf's sudden lightheartedness. "Yes. I have been informed that Eragon and Roran plan on leaving early with Orik for Hrothgar's funerary preparations. I wish for you to go as and Elven delegate. Roran can represent the humans and Eragon shall go in my stead. I have some troubling things to… clean up," she mumbled, wincing at the bad phrasing.

"What?" Eragon asked, looking shocked. He turned his confusion to Arya and then back to Nasuada, as if pained. "Nasuada… you told me nothing of this."

She sighed, glancing over at him. "Eragon, I cannot tell you anything other than what has been said. Things have happened here that… have no explanation. I need to look into it. I decided it would be best for me to do so without so many people milling about and under my feet." She sighed again, whispering, "Do understand, I want nothing more than to attend the funeral." She laid a hand on Eragon's shoulder, seeing the small flare of anger in him. "Give my regards to Orik and the others."

Arya, too, was shocked by this sudden change in the Ruler. What was so important that she must miss the funeral of the Dwarvan King? Arya decided it best not to question her motives, for it seemed Eragon wanted the pleasure of that all to himself. Instead, she turned her attention to Roran.

"Cousin of Eragon, walk with me for a moment. Those clothes look ill fitted and ripped. We cannot have you looking so if you are to attend a funeral." Arya caught the sudden look of heated jealousy that passed over Eragon's face, only to quickly be replaced by indifference. Arya averted her eyes, feigning ignorance.

Roran looked surprised to have her, an elven princess, speaking with him. "I… I was told that I would receive clothes in Farthen Dur."

"Nonsense," Arya murmured, turning for the flap of the tent. "We must have you cleaned up. Come along then." She glanced back at Nasuada, giving a curt, small bow. To Eragon, she pressed her fingers against her lips, wishing him a silent farewell.

She and Roran left the Varden Ruler and Rider to settle their differences in private.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Trouble Brewing

Eragon lay shirtless on his back, sleeping fitfully. Sweat glistened on his chest and his eyes roved back and forth beneath their lids. He tossed and turned, wrapping the coarse woolen blanket tightly around himself.

_He leaped from Saphira's back and brought his sword down in a cleaving arc in the same motion. Zar'roc bit through metal, flesh, and bone with ease, and blood gushed from the soldier's split head and pooled onto the ground below…_

_Eragon felt blinding pain in his side as an arrow found its way through the links in his mail armor and embedded itself within his flesh. He gritted his teeth and tore it out, and then turned in the direction from which the projectile had come. The soldier stood not far away, terror playing across the man's face as Eragon picked a fallen soldier's spear off of the ground and hurled it at him. Eragon's mouth split into a wicked smile as the spear punched through the soldier's middle and threw his screaming, bleeding body backwards…_

Eragon awoke with a start. _That was strange,_ he thought. _I shouldn't be dreaming anymore…_He rolled slowly off of his straw pallet and pushed himself to his feet. The world spun momentarily and he almost lost his balance, but he caught himself. He shook his head absently and began to slip his clothing on. His dreams replayed themselves again and again through his head, each detail rendered vividly as though it were happening before his very eyes. He tried to push the thoughts from his mind but found the task far too difficult. He reached down to pick his sword up – and remembered that he did not have one anymore. He sighed. The same thing had happened almost every day since the Varden's victorious return from the Burning Plains.

_Saphira,_ he called, _aren't we supposed to leave for Farthen Dûr today?_

_Yes, little one,_ came the reply. Her voice boomed through his head, causing him to wince. _Eragon, what troubles you?_ She asked suddenly.

_I…I had a dream last night,_ he thought slowly. _We were back on the Burning Plains again. I had to relive every time I killed someone. I thought elves weren't supposed to dream, Saphira?_

Eragon felt a brief surge of troubled emotion pass through his mind, and then Saphira said, _I thought you said that you did not in fact sleep, but rather you passed into a state of restful awareness. I would have thought dreaming would be impossible in that. _

_Aye. And Saphira, every time I killed someone I…I enjoyed it. Every time I saw an enemy soldier I wanted to just choke the life from him with my bare hands, to make him feel pain as I have felt ever since Garrow was killed. I like the feeling, Saphira, and I know I shouldn't, but…_He trailed off.

_It is understandable that you would feel rage in the face of that which has taken so much from you Eragon, but do not let it control you. Now, Nasuada is probably waiting to bid us farewell. We should go._

Eragon murmured an affirmation and pushed aside the flaps of his tent. The first rays of dawn played across his face and he squinted his eyes against the light. He looked around and spotted Saphira's miniscule outline against the grey-blue sky. Moments later she circled down and landed with a thud next to Eragon. Without a word the duo began to walk slowly to Nasuada's hut.

Eragon raised his hand and was about to knock on the door when it swung inward. Nasuada's face peered from around the edge and she strode out to meet them. She hugged Eragon tightly and said, "Good morning Eragon. Saphira," she murmured, inclining her head respectfully.

_Greetings,_ Saphira's said, and Eragon repeated the words, adding his own salutations.

Nasuada sighed. "Eragon," she began softly, "I know that you are upset with me for my decision to remain absent from Hrothgar's funeral, but believe me when I say that I regret this deeply. The truth of the matter is, however, that there are…problems…I must attend to. I fear that if I do not remain, they may grow out of control. Please, though – do give my best wishes to Hrothgar's memory."

"Of course, Nasuada, I understand," Eragon said quietly. He sighed. "I will try to return as soon as I can. If these problems are bad enough to warrant your absence from the funeral, then I believe it would be in everyone's best interests for Saphira and me to be here in case things get too touchy."

"Thank you. I'm sure things won't get too out of hand, though."

"Not with you're iron grip over the Varden, of course," Eragon said with a grin. Nasuada punched him lightly in the arm and smiled slightly. The sound of feet pounding lightly against the dirt rang through Eragon's elven ears and he turned around to see Arya trotting up to them. He began to raise his fingers in the traditional greeting but she waved it away absently.

"Greetings, Saphira. Good morning Eragon and Nasuada. Orik and the dwarves say they wish to leave soon," Arya said when she reached them, "so you should pack your belongings." She looked at Nasuada for a moment and then, in an uncharacteristic gesture, drew her into a quick embrace. "I wish you luck in dealing with whatever trouble has cropped up, Nasuada. We shall hurry back once the ceremony is over to assist you."

"Thank you Arya. Eragon has already given me similar assurances. Now you three should go before the dwarves become impatient."

With a final farewell, Saphira, Eragon, and Arya turned away, leaving the leader of the Varden to deal with the new threat alone.

Twenty minutes later, Eragon and Saphira strode up to the crowd of dwarves, humans, and elves that would be attending Hrothgar's funeral. Almost all of the Varden had wished to return to Farthen Dûr to pay their last respects to the leader who had given them so much, but another such exodus would have been unwise with the stability of the rebel community in such a fragile state. And so a select few important individuals had been chosen to attend the ceremony.

Eragon spied Orik ahead and walked up to him. The dwarf turned toward Eragon as the Rider knelt to embrace his squat friend.

"Ah, Eragon, you are a sight for these sore eyes of mine," Orik said in a husky voice, and smiled at Eragon, though the gesture did not reach his sad eyes; the dwarf had yet to recover from his adopted father's death.

"And it is good to see you, Orik," Eragon said softly. "Tell me – when do we leave?"

"We are ready to go now, in fact. We await only Arya."

Eragon nodded. "Very well."

Ten minutes later Arya, perched atop a pure white stallion, rode towards them. "I apologize for my tardiness," she said when she was closer. "I was helping Nasuada tidy a few things up before we left."

"Well, now that you're here, we'd best be on our way. No sense in waiting," grumbled Orik. He stalked off to where the rest of the dwarves were gathered around four others of their kind, each supporting a large bronze shield. A white sheet obscured what rested upon the shields, but Eragon knew that the figure belonged to King Hrothgar. He saw Orik stop when he reached the shields and reach a hand out to tenderly touch his father figure. One of the burly dwarves patted him gently on the shoulder, and suddenly Eragon felt hate well within him. His mind became clouded with black rage and he imagined killing Murtagh just as brutally as the dwarvan king had been slain. Images of Eragon's hands wrapped around Murtagh's throat floated across the Rider's mind, images of swords, pain, and torture –

"Come, Eragon – the caravan has started moving."

Eragon shook himself and turned to see Arya staring at him intently. The rage vanished from his mind as he looked upon her pristine features, and he mumbled, "Right. Of course." He put his hand on Saphira's massive leg and she lowered her shoulder so that he could climb up onto her saddle. He caught one last glimpse of Arya before Saphira pushed off the ground and launched herself into the air.

A lone figure watched from the shadows as the caravan moved slowly out of sight. She pulled her hood lower over her face and crouched deeper into the shadows as a guard walked past the alley where she was hidden. She remained unnoticed as the guard strode away and looked back out as he disappeared around a corner. She smiled. Eragon was out of the way, which left her little opposition. Nasuada would be as helpless as an infant bird without the protection of her Rider.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

A Wolf Among the Sheep

Nasuada watched the caravan depart with a heavy heart. Every beat of Saphira's wings and soft step of Arya's stallion brought heartache to the ruler. Two of her closest advisors –dare she call them _friends_? - were riding away from her. Why had she let them leave; and now, when she needed them the most?

_That is enough, Nasuada, _she chided herself, fiddling with the silver band around her left ring finger. _There is no need for you to go to tears over this. You cannot allow your men to see you like this. _Turning away from the sight of the moving caravan, Nasuada took a deep breath and headed deeper into the city of Surda.

The hot air was stifling, yet dry, and Nasuada found the lack of interest people had for her relieving. She had thought walking among the commoners of Surda would spark an interest; she had feared they would watch her incessantly, as if she were some trained beast about to do a trick. After all, her coloring was odd to these people, and she was a female ruler. So many of these things classified her as an oddity to the common-day person… so why was there not more interest?

_There is no time for this, Nasuada; get a hold of yourself! Your men need you, and you need to stay especially alert and aware. Who knows when the enemies within your own circle will attack? _The thought made the young woman shiver in sudden cold. She was suddenly wary of not accepting a room in Orrin's castle; at least there she could have the guards alerted of this treason about to occur.

_What sort of ruler would you be, then? _A part of her mind berated forcefully. _You would have Eragon or Arya deal with this nuisance for you, or even Orrin's men. Grow a backbone and face up to your foes!_

Nasuada steeled herself for what she knew was coming; her foe would certainly waste no time once Eragon and the others were out of the way. She took a strong, sure step toward the inn, planning on speaking with some of the soldiers who had roomed there, when a voice caught her off guard.

"Nasuada, I was just on my way to speak with you."

Turning, Nasuada checked her surprise. "Trianna… greetings. I had expected you to still be with the castle spell casters, honing your knowledge."

"Ah, yes," Trianna mused, her dark painted lips quirking upward in a secretive smile. Nasuada had never liked how the sorceress smiled. "I would be, yet it seems they fast every full moon, starving their bodies and refusing to speak. I have no use for them when they are being so disagreeable."

Nasuada nodded, feeling the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. Something was very wrong. "Did you say there was a reason for this visit?"

Trianna shrugged nonchalantly. "I thought now, with Eragon gone, you could use some extra protection – and perhaps a woman's company, seeing as your elven companion has gone as well."

"I see," Nasuada answered shortly, rubbing her cotton-covered arms with her hands.

Trianna glanced at her ring finger and raised an eyebrow. "Have you married in the past days since I have seen you?"

Nasuada glanced down at her hand, realizing how inauspicious the ring seemed and sighed. "No. It is a reminder to me of my duties to the Varden… in essence, a reminder that other thoughts, besides those of this rebellion, are frivolous."

Trianna met Nasuada's eyes, her strange smile still in place. Finally she replied with, "I simply _hate_ wars. All of the bloodshed is so disagreeable."

Nasuada's dark eyes narrowed, trying to understand the connection between her words and Trianna's. Trying to remain cordial, she managed to murmur, "Is it not strange that one such as you should say that? The magic users and warriors seem to be the ones who benefit the most in times such as these."

"Not as much as the rulers," Trianna quipped, her smile widening. "Besides, we magic users and mercenaries are forced to chose sides; that is almost as dangerous as heading a rebellion. If we choose the wrong side…" she trailed off, shrugging again.

Nasuada's gaze was cold as she muttered, "And who is to say that you _have_ chosen correctly?"

Trianna's expression took on an angry, feral glint. "Perhaps I haven't… but only one person will determine that." Pretending to chuckle good-naturedly, she alleged, "This talk is much too serious for me. Come, Lady Varden. Join me in my little hovel for some tea; I just made a fresh batch."

Nasuada followed the witch, hands feeling for the daggers strapped to the wrist sheathes hidden under her full sleeves. Nasuada had never trusted the sorceress… and if Elva's recent prediction was correct – and Nasuada didn't doubt her for a moment – then there was a very good reason for her mistrust.

Trianna had turned out to be a wolf in sheep's clothing. Nasuada only hoped that she was able to catch the wolf unawares and dive in for the kill before its teeth tore her apart.

…

Arya felt as if this entire trip had been a plot to slowly drive her mad. She was able to handle the openly mourning dwarves, who sometimes burst into very moving speeches about their fallen ruler. She could even handle Orik's silent weeping, offering him only stoic silence and looks of apology.

Yet the one thing she could not shake off was Roran. Ever since their morning spent together in Surda, he seemed to latch on to her like a parasite. He seemed to think that she, being an elven princess, had some insight into the workings of Helgrind. How those two unrelated topics seemed connected to him, she was unsure.

"Do you think she is alright?" Roran asked suddenly as they drew to a halt where the others decided to make camp for the night.

He looked over at her with such pain and hope in his eyes that Arya felt exasperated. How was she to break it to this pining fool that his lover was probably being tortured as they spoke, and possibly dead?

"Why do you not speak with your cousin about this, Roran?" Arya asked finally, trying to be patient. "Why do you speak with me, a woman who hardly knows you and has never met this woman?"

Roran looked down, mumbling something, before answering, "You will find me foolish, but I feel like I hardly know him anymore. He is a mystery to me; he has changed so much and seen so many things that I…"

Arya sighed, looking past Roran and toward the main group. Eragon was among the dwarves and select few elves and humans that had joined them. Yet Eragon was not paying attention to the dwarves speaking around him. His eyes were locked onto Arya.

Arya shivered, looking back to Roran. If she had not known better, she would have thought that she had seen hate brimming in those dark eyes. "Roran, you must speak with Eragon. He and I are on shaky ground – at best. I fear that you speaking with me constantly may set off his temper."

"Temper?" Roran repeated, remembering Eragon only as the sweet-natured boy from Carvahall.

Arya nodded. "He has been prone to terrible mood swings and irrational anger. Personally, I blame it on the Blood Oath ceremony and his induction into the elven ways." She shook her head, long tresses shaking with the motion. "Unfortunately, he has taken on the worst part of our race's mannerisms, as well as the best."

She glanced over to where Eragon had been, but he seemed to have disappeared. A tickle of worry ate away at her insides as she bade Roran go join the dwarves for supper around the campfire. She, in turn, picketed the horses at a scraggly tree. One good tug would free them from the tree, of course, yet she felt better knowing that their leads were tied off.

Alone and enveloped by the oncoming darkness, Arya went about feeding the horses and brushing down their coats. She did not have the courage to face all of them yet; namely, she did not have the courage to face Eragon.

Sighing, she closed her eyes and whispered to her stallion, "You are lucky, do you know that? Lucky you do not have feelings as complex as we do."

The horse stilled its prancing under her hand and sniffed the air, nickering softly. It had caught the scent of another person. Arya looked up, feeling dread entering her heart.

_How is it, _she thought numbly_, that I can stand against any foe without flinching… and now I feel like running at the sight of a mere boy?_ She had no time to puzzle out the answer, for the aforementioned boy was striding toward her.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

A Cry for Help

Eragon felt the familiar twang in his stomach as he caught sight of Arya, but he did his best to control his emotions. _I gave my word,_ he thought sullenly. He shut his eyes for a moment, willing all thoughts of Arya away to the recesses of his mind. It was futile, of course, but it made him feel better.

He stopped a short distance from Arya and began to raise his fingers to his lips in the traditional greeting.

"Stop it, Eragon," she murmured. He ended the gesture abruptly. "There is no need for that, and you know it."

"Very well," Eragon said. It sounded stiff and angry to his ears. "Very well," he said again, this time in a softer tone. An awkward silence followed, and Eragon found it increasingly difficult to refrain from staring at Arya's perfect figure.

"I saw you with Roran today," Eragon said at last, shattering the quiet. "What…what were you two talking about?"

In the past, Eragon would not have been able to detect any sign of emotion on Arya's face. After the dragon's gift at the Agaetí Blödhren, however, his senses had been heightened immeasurably; which was how he was able to detect the anger betrayed by an almost unnoticeable twitch of muscle in Arya's left temple. She opened her mouth to speak but Eragon cut her off.

"That is not what I meant, Arya. I promised I would stop being… foolish around you, and I will keep my promise. I simply wish to know what it was you spoke of. Roran has grown distant of late, and I worry about him is all." Eragon broke away from her gaze and looked away. Inwardly he knew it was a lie, and looking so deeply into those orbs of liquid emerald always made him feel…naked; as if his entire soul had been exposed and all his thoughts laid before her on exhibition. The feeling was unnerving, to say the least, but it was always accompanied by an odd sense of hope that somehow, in the process of exploring the recesses of his being, she would see how he truly felt for her, and not just view him as a foolish young boy.

"…is troubling you –" he heard her say.

"What? Sorry. My mind was elsewhere." She raised an eyebrow but said nothing, and Eragon suddenly realized how his comment must have sounded. "No! I didn't –"

"Do not worry, Argetlam. I understand. What I was saying was that something is troubling you – I can see it in your eyes. What is wrong, Eragon?"

"There is nothing…" he began, and trailed off. He wondered whether he should tell her about his dream and his apparent lust for violence and destruction.

"Yes?" Arya said after a moment. Eragon looked up into her eyes. _No,_ he thought. _She will only think less of me. This must remain a secret between Saphira and me. _

"There is nothing wrong," he repeated. Arya stared at him and after a moment Eragon broke away from her gaze, unnerved.

"Very well," she said at last. "One day, perhaps, we will learn to be open with each other."

Eragon felt anger surge within him. "The last time I was open with you –"

"That is not the only way to be open, Eragon. I simply hope that, one day, we will be able to look at one another as…friends…and share what is on our minds." Something in her voice caught Eragon's attention, but he refrained from outwardly showing that he had noticed it.

_Or perhaps,_ he thought to himself, _I am deluding myself with fantasies once again._ "Arya, there truly is nothing bothering me," he murmured. "Would you tell me, though, what it was you and Roran talked about?"

"Katrina," Arya said simply. "He is worried to the point of exhaustion about her; she is all he thinks about anymore, and it is tearing him apart."

"I wish there was something I could do to ease his pain," Eragon murmured. He thought of Katrina, locked away at the top of Helgrind, constantly tortured by Galbatorix's foul minions. As he brooded, his thoughts switched unexpectedly to Arya when he had rescued her from Gil'ead. He remembered in vivid detail the horrible wounds upon Arya's tortured flesh, and somewhere, deep within his mind, he felt rage begin to build up. He imagined torturing those responsible for Arya's pain, envisioned himself hurting the soldiers responsible in horrible ways. The rage was soon accompanied by a sort of sick pleasure. _I could get lost in this,_ he thought absently. _It feels good…_

"Eragon!" Arya's voice shattered his thoughts and brought him back to the present.

"What?" he asked, his voice sounding slurred as though he had drunk too much mead.

"What were you doing?"

He became aware that his fists were clenched tightly and he looked down at them. He opened his hands slowly, noting the smears of blood where his nails had broken the flesh of his palms. "I…was just…" He faltered. _What do I tell her?_ "I was thinking about…the Ra'zac, and I became angry…" He trailed off. _Best not to dig the hole any deeper,_ he thought. "It was nothing."

Arya ran a hand through her hair and breathed an annoyed sigh. "Fine," she said stiffly. "Don't tell me." She turned and began to walk quickly away.

"Arya…" Eragon said, but realized the gesture was futile.

_You have a knack for making her angry, little one,_ said a familiar voice in his head. _Perhaps you should try telling her what is bothering you. I would tell you that your current course of action does not seem to be working, but hopefully you have already figured that out for yourself._

_I do have a knack for it, don't I Saphira? _He heaved a mental sigh. _Am I not supposed to be happy? Am I just some sort of tool put here to do a job and nothing else? It seems that way lately. I just wish she felt the same way about me that I do about her. _Saphira did not reply. _Saphira?_

He sensed turmoil on her end of the mental connection, but Saphira must have realized this because he was cut off from it almost immediately. _I am sorry, little one. I do not know how to help you with this. _A wave of sadness and frustration hit Eragon like a tidal wave.

_Well, it's no use dwelling on it,_ Eragon said. _I will return to the camp shortly. I need some time by myself first, though._

_Very well, Eragon._

Eragon severed the connection and sat slowly down on the ground with his legs crossed. He closed his eyes and tried to meditate as Oromis had shown him how to, but his thoughts strayed incessantly back to Arya. _Why?_ he thought morosely. _Why?_

Saphira felt Eragon sever the mental connection between them and returned to her meal – a freshly caught buck. As she ate she mulled over her conversation with Eragon. Her Rider had grown so troubled after the dream. She wished she could find an answer to Eragon's problems, but her mind left her perpetually in the dark. She finished the deer and licked her lips. Then a thought occurred to her.

_Arya,_ she thought.

A moment later she was answered. _Saphira?_

_Yes._

_What do you need? _Arya's thoughts were laced with emotion; Saphira could feel the elf's anger and frustration almost physically. She looked deeper and realized that the frustration was not simply because of Eragon's refusal to let her know what was troubling him. There was something else as well…

_Ahhh…_ she thought inwardly. _How interesting…_

_Saphira?_ The emotions faded quickly; Arya must have felt Saphira probing them. There was still a faint trace of them, however; no matter how strong an elf was mentally, they would never be able to match a dragon.

_I need to talk to you about Eragon, _Saphira said. She felt Arya's irritation well up again, and this time it was accompanied by another emotion – sadness.

_What is troubling him Saphira? I know there is something wrong, but he will not tell me. _

_I am sorry, but it is not my place. _Saphira felt Arya's rage rise. _You will have to wait until he is ready. Do not expect him to bare his soul to you so soon, Arya; you dealt him a terrible blow at the Agaetí Blödhren and I do not believe he will be ready speak to you so openly for a long time._

_I had no choice!_ There was the agitation again and…regret. Saphira raised an eyebrow, but the feeling was hidden almost immediately. A wave of desperation joined the fray soon after. _We cannot do anything foolish while the war still rages! It could mean the end of us all._

_And after the war? _Saphira could almost feel Arya's stomach flip at the question.

_I do not love him. _The reply came belatedly and lacked conviction, but Saphira did not press the matter.

_Do elves dream? _Saphira asked, deliberately switching topics.

_Do elves – what? _Saphira could sense Arya's confusion.

_Dream. I was wondering if elves have ever been known to dream._

_I…have not heard of it. Why? Is that what is troubling Eragon?_

Saphira grimaced. _Well, why shouldn't she know? _she wondered. _It cannot hurt. _

_Yes,_ she said at last. _He dreamt he was on the Burning Plains._

_Well, perhaps he simply retained some of his human aspects in the transformation. _Arya responded, but she sounded unsure.

_He said he enjoyed inflicting pain, _Saphira added.

_I see. Not exactly an admirable trait, but –_

_He is worried, Arya. Worried that he will turn into another Galbatorix._

Arya's response was immediate. _Eragon another Galbatorix? Never! How could Eragon possibly think that?_

_You are that certain? Power is a tantalizing brew, Arya – drink too much of it and it begins to corrupt even the most kind-hearted person._

_But not Eragon,_ Arya said firmly.

_Perhaps you should tell him that._

There was nothing but silence on Arya's end of the link.

_Arya?_

_I heard you._

_He says the urge to kill becomes almost irresistible. That is what he is most worried about, Arya. Perhaps all he needs is a little help from someone other than me for once. _

_But he won't let me in, Saphira! How am I supposed to help him if –_

_He will let you in, _Saphira said. _You just need to show a little kindness._


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Trust

Nasuada's steps were faulty as she managed to follow Trianna into her small corner room off of the castle's first floor. Borromeo Castle felt too warm to Nasuada; too bight and airy. Yet there was coldness inside of Nasuada. It was a coldness that had appeared once her father and Murtagh were ripped away from her in the same instant. Murtagh was nothing but a silly crush, of course, but it still pained her. And there was no one that could replace her father.

"So, tell me," Trianna was saying in such a flippant manner that it made Nasuada uneasy, " However are you planning on handling life without your pet elf and dragon rider?" The words were muttered teasingly, but they set Nasuada on edge. Her hand stole away inside of the folds of her sleeves, feeling the wrist sheath and dagger there. Trianna was going toward a tall row of shelves in the corner, unlocking the glass covering on the cabinet.

"Just fine, thank you," was Nasuada's tart reply. "And what of you? It must have been hard to lose such wonderful supporters as the Twins." Nasuada didn't bother masking her loathing. She was on to Trianna. She knew what was happening here.

Trianna froze, her hand halfway into the motion of grabbing two cups from the top shelf. She slowly turned, hands lowering to her side. Her smile was suddenly wilted into a plastic, fake expression that Nasuada had only seen on liars. "I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me, Trianna. I am sick of your little mind games." Nasuada felt a small smirk tug at the corners of her mouth, but she managed to hide it. "I know what is going on; I have a few spies of my own and they've told me all about you."

"You know nothing!" Trianna hissed. The fireplace, which before was only a smoldering log, burst into a sudden flame that engulfed the stone hearth. Nasuada fell back from the display, shaking despite her resolve to stay strong. What was she doing here, alone, with only a dagger to protect her? Nasuada was insane – though not a full-fledged sorceress, Trianna certainly had an advantage here.

There was the sound of a throat being cleared from behind Nasuada. The girl ruler spun around, although she really did not want Trianna at her back. Angela stood there, her usual cool grin extinguished. There was a look of cold hatred in the older woman's face.

"Trianna," she spoke slowly, "you are not welcome with the Varden any longer. You have threatened our ruler and endangered all of our lives. I think it is time for you to leave."

The witch's words made Nasuada shudder; she had never seen Angela look so livid. Trianna, too, looked surprised. The shock did not last long, however. The sorceress began to chuckle to herself before bursting into a sort of cackling laughter. The sound made Nasuada's hair stand on end.

"You think yourself so powerful, but you do nothing more than parlor tricks," Trianna spat finally. "Get out of my room; both of you. But I will not leave the Varden. You can prove nothing and King Orrin has not renounced me. He is the one in charge here, in case you've forgotten."

Trianna turned her back on them, deliberately showing her lack of fear. "Get out."

Nasuada took a deep breath, calming her frazzled nerves, and allowed Angela to take her arm. The older woman led the ruler out of the small, den-like room, murmuring, "You are very foolish for going there on your own."

"How did you know?" Nasuada whispered, dark eyes turning to look at the witch, suspicious. "Have you been following me?"

"Oh please," Angela muttered exasperatedly. A smile betrayed her, however, and her ridged stance loosened. "You, my dear ruler, stick out like a sore thumb in Surda. Anywhere, really," she added as an after thought. More seriously, she continued, "Elva spoke of you. I came to make sure you weren't truly in danger."

"What shall I do, Angela?" Nasuada asked softly, voice dejected.

Angela sighed, patting Nasuada's shoulder. "Oh, Nasuada, you know what must be done eventually. But I suggest you build your strength and your will before facing her. Lie low and meditate on things. You have a power in you that is just waiting to be tapped into."

Nasuada sighed deeply. "Angela… I am not fit to rule. I am not as strong as my father. I cannot do this."

"You can, and you will," Angela said sternly yet caringly, much the way a mother would scold her child. "You must – you are all we have."

…

The buck she had devoured seemed to sour in her stomach; either that, or Saphira's worry for Eragon was making her insides churn without cease. She paced for a while, and when that did not help, she took to the skies.

She knew that her large presence looming above them made most people nervous. Yet, at the moment, the only thing she was focusing on was the past month. _Oh Eragon, _she thought to herself, _you have grown so much… but this is such a burden to place on a child; such an unnecessary weight to hang on to a young boy._

Saphira tried reaching out to Arya, only to find the elf's mind in a state of uneasy confusion. The elf promptly threw up her barriers, blocking Saphira out most effectively. If she had wanted to, Saphira could easily worm her way past the defenses; yet she respected Arya and her privacy.

_I've probably bothered her enough for one day, _Saphira humph'ed as she circled low to the desert ground. She landed, her claws clenching into the shifting sand, and let out a little trumpet of anxiety. Things were so edgy in the camp. Everyone was wary of bandits and sorrowful over the loss of Hrothgar. Not to mention the silently waging feud between Arya and Eragon that was more of a love spat than anything else.

_Stubborn, _Saphira roared internally, finally fed up. _They are both too stubborn! They are in love with one another and cannot face the fact! _And Arya did love him – Saphira could feel it, could hear it in Arya's defiant tone every time they spoke. She was hiding her love and it was eating the woman alive inside.

_Eragon? _She reached out suddenly, needing to feel the boy's presence. He always managed to calm her when she was upset or annoyed.

_Yes? _Came Eragon's soft, slightly vexed voice.

_He asked me for time alone_, Saphira remembered belatedly. _I'm sorry for interrupting you, little one… but I need you to know how much I love you. Just… remember that. _

She felt his tensions release, and could almost see the faint, gentle smile that was gracing his features. _I know, Saphira, and thank you. I love you, too._

_No matter what happens, _Saphira added, before slowly pulling away from his mind.

_No matter what happens, _he repeated. With that simple reassurance, he departed from her mind.

Saphira let out a little snort of relief, the reassurance of his words filling her. Now, if only Arya were so sensible! _But of course she isn't, _Saphira thought with a serpentine grin. _She's an elf. Elves are anything but sensible. _

_…_

Arya paced her tent until there was a noticeable trench where her boots had scuffed continually. Finally fed up, she turned her agitated gaze out of the tent flap and toward the sun. _Saphira?_

_…Oh, is the elf speaking with me again? _Despite the annoyance in the dragon's voice, there was a teasing there, too. That was a good sign.

_…I need to speak with Eragon, I suppose._

_There's no _supposing_ about it! _Saphira alleged. _You must. He needs_ _someone else to support him. He's beginning to lose his trust in people._

Arya rolled her eyes, a very immature gesture that she had not done for quite some time, and snapped, _Fine. I am going. But this nonsense needs to stop. We have a war to fight and the Varden's Rider cannot be falling to pieces!_

_Temper, Arya._

Arya closed her eyes, taking a deep breath to calm her nerves. _I shall go see Eragon. Good day, Saphira._

_Good luck, Arya._

Arya stepped outside of the tent, instantly bombarded with the scent of oncoming rain. The air was thick, which was surprising. Hadn't it been sunny not but an hour previously? She meandered toward the west, feeling Eragon's sullen presence tugging at her mind. She found him easily; his back was to the encampment, his stance rigid as he tried to meditate.

Arya slowly stepped to his side, lowering herself to the ground beside him. She mimicked his pose, noticing that his body tightened and froze up at the feel of her proximity. He pretended not to notice her, but the fine trembling in his hands was evidence enough that she still affected him.

"It's easier if you try to relax your muscles one at a time," she offered gently. There. She could be nice and soft when speaking of impersonal matters. Teaching him to relax; that was a good way to smooth out the rough edges between them. _Teach him to trust you again_, she thought to herself. Saphira's words were stilling ringing in her ears, so harsh yet so true: _you dealt him a terrible blow at the Agaetí Blödhren and I do not believe he will be ready speak to you so openly for a long time._

"I'm trying," Eragon muttered through clenched teeth. Anger tainted his words.

_Damnit, that didn't work, _Arya thought, feeling awkwardness creep into her blood. _He took it badly; I only meant to… _one side of her mind thought. _Stop it, Arya, _another part chided. _Stop second-guessing yourself and focus on the boy. You don't matter right now; he does._

"You know I did not mean that rudely, Eragon," she murmured. Her eyes cracked open and she turned to see him staring at her. His eyes were angry yet filled with sorrow. They broke Arya's heart.

_Why do I let this child affect me so? _She thought as she looked away. "Let me help you," she said finally, kneeling down behind him. There she stooped, feeling the tension radiating from him. "I am not going to hurt you, Eragon, so you can stop being so tense." Her soft jibe, however, only seemed to make him more edgy.

Sighing, Arya placed her hands on his shoulders. "Do you trust me, Eragon?"

"…Yes." His voice shook; not out of fear, but something else.

"Then close your eyes." When he did, she switched to the Ancient Language, which flowed more smoothly. "As a child, whenever I was upset, Faolin would sit me down much as you are sitting. He would always begin like this… placing his hands on my shoulders and asking if I trusted him. Eragon… take a deep breath and let it out. Now focus on me; focus on my hands and nothing else."

Arya slowly moved her hands down the length of his arms, her thumbs rubbing over the tensed muscles. Like magic, he began to loosen up, to allow her touch, to relax. Smiling, she leaned in closer, hands back on his shoulders, working out the kinks of his neck.

Her hair, which she had not put up in its customary bun, fell over her shoulder, spilling across his arm. The scent of Ellesmera, of thick pine needles, filled the air. Eragon's muscles tensed and he was suddenly tearing himself from her, stumbling away, breath coming fast.

"Eragon?" Arya asked, startled by his sudden reaction.

He stood there, trembling, looking enraged and confused at the same time. He opened his mouth as if to yell accusingly at her, only to fail at spoken word. He hesitated, caught between fight and flight. In the end, he chose flight and ran back toward the camp without a word.

Arya felt her heart plummet. What was going on? Saphira's words circled through her mind and made her dizzy. Arya put a hand to her forehead, closing her eyes. Why did humans have to make life so difficult?


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Pain

_"Arya, I'll do anything to win your hand. I would follow you to the ends of the earth. I would build a palace for you with nothing but my bare hands. I would—"_

_"Will you stop pursuing me? Can you promise me that?" When he hesitated, she stepped closer and said, low and gentle, "Eragon, this cannot be. You are young and I am old, and that shall never change."_

_"Do you feel nothing for me?"_

_"My feelings for you," she said, "are those of a friend and nothing more. I am grateful to you for rescuing me from Gil'ead, and I find your company pleasant. That is all…Relinquish this quest of yours—it will only bring you heartache—and find someone your own age to spend the long years with."_

_His eyes brimmed with tears. "How can you be so cruel?"_

The memory roared across Eragon's mind like wildfire, obliterating everything in its path until there was nothing left but the pain, the anger, and the sorrow. He ran. He ran away from Arya, away from the camp, away from Saphira.

_Eragon! _Saphira's thought slammed into him, nearly throwing him off his feet, but he recovered and in the next instant had blocked her out completely. He could feel her battering his defenses with all her might—the realization was not lost on him—but he held her at bay as though she were nothing more than an annoying insect. The mixture of rage and pain and sorrow coursed through him, pumped through his veins, narrowed his vision until all that was left was a hole in the center of a field of darkness; a hole through which he could just barely see the roots which reached up to trip him and the branches which lashed across his face, drawing beads of blood across his refined features.

He ran and ran and ran for what seemed like an eternity. His legs were a blur as he sprinted across the ground, his arms pumping to gain momentum. Finally the rage was too much to bear—

_Relinquish this quest._

_This cannot, nor ever shall be._

—and he screamed. The trees around him bowed backward as if in a strong wind. Rocks shook loose from where they had rested for centuries to roll down gullies and hillsides, creating miniature landslides.

Eragon, still screaming, stopped running abruptly and fell to his knees; his head thrown back and a feral look in his eyes. The scream ripped at his throat and he felt a new pain—not the dull, incessant one which he had grown used to since the Agaetí Blödhren, but a sharp, rumbling one.

The scream died away, the last notes echoing out into the night, and he slumped forward, utterly exhausted. Thoughts and memories moved sluggishly through his battered mind. _Why did I do that?_ he thought slowly. _Something truly _is _wrong. The rage—it feels good._

But he could not bring himself to stand. The memory of Arya's hands on his back, of her silk-smooth hair falling across his shoulder, of the scent of pine needles bombarding his sense of smell…he jerked convulsively on the ground, feeling another sharp pain as a rock dug into his side. Air rushed rapidly and heavily in and out of his lungs and he shivered as the cool night air chilled his sweat-covered body.

_Why did she do that?!_ his mind screamed silently. He was vaguely aware of Saphira still trying to enter his mind, and he found that he was growing weaker. She would soon be able to gain access. _She had to have known what would happen!_ A sob escaped his chapped lips and he curled even tighter. _Is this some sick sort of punishment for what I did at the Blood Oath ceremony?_

He remembered vividly the feelings he had experienced as Arya's hands had gently kneaded his tensed muscles—a love deeper than the deepest ocean, a feeling that there was still hope that Arya would feel for him. And then she had leaned in closer…the love had multiplied. He had wanted to seize her slender form tightly, to feel her arms around him, to feel her lips against his, to hear her say—

_ERAGON!_

He jerked as Saphira's voice finally penetrated his barriers.

_What is wrong? _The thought screamed through his mind and he could feel the anxiety that accompanied it, the animalistic fear. _Eragon, answer me!_

_Why did she do that, Saphira? _Eragon's thought sounded pitiful even to himself; it was so small and laced with sorrow. _Why?! _He could feel the scream building up inside of him again, but he fought it down. That, he knew, was a dark path to walk—one filled with power, but also with hate and pain and sadness so deep and so ingrained that he would become his most hated enemy; he would become Galbatorix. Nevertheless, it was a difficult battle.

_Do what? _Saphira asked urgently. _Did Arya do something to you? She has not responded to my calls—did you anger her in some way?_

_She knew it would happen,_ Eragon sobbed. _Damn her! Am I to be punished now, Saphira? Is that what she meant to do?_

_Oh, no,_ Saphira thought inwardly. _What have I done? _So intense was Eragon's grief that it was all Saphira could do to remain standing. _Eragon, _she said, _where are you? _But all that came back was a tidal wave of emotion. With no other way to turn, Saphira did the unspeakable. She located Arya, felt the mental wall there, cold and hard as diamond—and smashed it aside. She waited for Arya to stand back up from where she had fallen and then spoke.

_What did you do to him, you foolish girl? _Saphira's thoughts roared toward Arya and she sensed that the elf had almost fallen again. _What did you say?_

_Nothing!_ The tone in Arya's words was full of desperation, and Saphira wilted, her furious demeanor vanishing. _I was only trying to make him more comfortable! I said nothing out of order, I swear it! _And she said it again in the Ancient Language.

_Then why did he run? _Saphira asked, much more softly this time. _What did you do?_

_I…_Saphira could feel Arya blush through their mental link. _I attempted to loosen his muscles, the better for him to meditate, and he fled._

Saphira sent the mental equivalent of running a hand across her face. _Arya…when I said open up to him, I did not mean press against him like a doe in heat. _A flash of anger flitted toward Saphira.

_I did NOT! _Saphira nearly reeled from the force of Arya's words. _It was only when my hair touched his arm that he ran._

There was silence as Saphira waited for more. _Should…should I find him? _Arya asked at last.

Saphira almost laughed. _No! There has been enough damage done this night. I will find him myself. I think that your presence would do more harm than help right now. _She severed the mental link, but not before feeling a badly concealed sliver of sadness prick her from Arya's end.

Murtagh sat at the end of a long wooden table, eating in silence. Directly opposite him sat the table's only other occupant, Galbatorix. Murtagh kept his eyes focused solely on his food, wanting nothing more than to leave the dining room and speak with Thorn. But it seemed fate had other ideas.

"Your brother and a large escort have left for Farthen Dûr to attend the funeral of the late dwarf king Hrothgar. How touching." The words, inlaid with subtle sarcasm, slithered through Murtagh's ears, subtly changing how he thought of Eragon. _Yes…a fool—no! That is what _he_ wants me to think!_

"This, of course, means that Surda will be basically defenseless. That is, however, not my chief concern. I care more about the fact that the leader of the Varden, who my intelligence tells me has remained behind, is all alone."

Murtagh could feel the king's piercing, pale blue eyes search every chink of Murtagh's physical and mental armor for a reaction to the mention of Nasuada, but thoughts of her were held at bay, locked away into the farthest corners of Murtagh's mind.

"My assassin will kill her," Galbatorix said flatly. "Quite easily, too. Nasuada is no match for my agent."

"Then kill her," Murtagh said, allowing the smallest bit of loathing to attach itself to his words. "Why should it concern me, my _lord_," the last word was said mockingly, "when you _obviously_ have the matter under cont—" The last word ended in a choking gurgle and Murtagh knew that he had pushed Galbatorix to the limit. He smiled inwardly as he turned his gaze to the face laced with hatred, the outstretched arm which ended in a hand curved like a claw.

"_Don't…_toy with _me_ boy," Galbatorix hissed.

"_Kill me, you coward!" _Murtagh choked. _Yes!_ he thought as he saw the rage intensify a hundredfold on the king's face. But reprieve would not come. Galbatorix relaxed suddenly and Murtagh coughed as air rushed back into his starved lungs. _I should have let Eragon kill me, _he thought as he slumped against the table.

"I will not be made a fool of in my hour of victory," said Galbatorix, and the words had regained their usual calm slither. "I know that is exactly what you want, and I know also your feelings for the leader of the Varden. For that, I would send you to kill her myself…" he smiled as Murtagh tensed visibly, "but I need you here."

Murtagh felt tears of frustration burn his eyes but would not let them come. Suicide would be so easy—if only Galbatorix had not forbidden him from doing it. There was no way out of the trap which fate had apparently laid for him. And insolence, he knew, would only be rewarded by gifts from the Ra'zac. _I will kill them one day,_ Murtagh thought. _And you, old man, will die as well…not by my hand, but your time will come._

Galbatorix laughed and Murtagh realized that, in his anger, he had not guarded his thoughts. "I see you wish for another visit with the Ra'zac. Well, my boy, that can be arranged. _Go to them now, Murtagh." _The last words were spoken in the Ancient Language and had ended with Murtagh's true name. He had no choice but to obey. He began to recede into the half-consciousness which he reserved for occasions like these, felt his legs move underneath him of their own accord. Faintly he felt the stone beneath his feet change and grow rougher and harder, smelled the change in the air as it grew danker. And then, all he remembered was a dull sense of pain.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

Readings

Angela sat down across from Nasuada, shuffling the deck of tarot cards before her. "These are hardly as fool-proof as they are said to be," the witch was murmuring, more to herself than the ruler. "Some of the cards are vague; they could say that you have a dark cloud hanging round you, which could mean a million different things. Just remember – the first thing that comes to your mind will most likely be the correct one."

Solembum snuck in through the tent flap, softly traipsing over to Nasuada on silent paws. The werecat sniffed at her hand, much as a real cat would, before feigning disinterest and slinking over to Angela.

Nasuada closed her eyes, nerves making her anxious, as Angela began to lay the cards out, faces down. Nasuada heard the scrape of the first card being turned over and flinched, whetting her cracked lips.

"Star," Angela murmured softly, voice seeming to drop an octave. "It stands for faith – both in yourself and those around you. Once you trust yourself, your belief will be able to support you through most anything."

_That wasn't so difficult to understand_, Nasuada thought, swirling images of the coming battles going through her mind_. My belief in myself will help me cope._

"The Empress," Angela continued with the next card. "A symbol of life, creation, fertility. You have the ability to shape lives around you and to create a beautiful world.

"Queen of Cups – powerful insight and foresight. She is mirror-like, reflecting her feelings and the things she sees coming in the future. Yet sometimes her face is clouded and her meanings unclear until the end."

"I am the Queen of Cups?" Nasuada asked with a confused expression. She had no foresight whatsoever!

"Either that," Angela began coyly with a smile, "or someone close to you is." She glanced back down at her cards, turning the next one over. "Oh, I see a Hanged Man in your life… the hanged man signifies the ability to admit fear and gain immense courage from it."

"I am afraid," Nasuada whispered, closing her eyes. "So where is my courage?"

Angela continued on as if the ruler had not said anything. She flipped over the next card, but her hand stiffened when the face was up and staring at her. "Oh dear."

"What?" Nasuada asked quickly, glancing at the card. She couldn't understand what was so bad about it.

"One of the worst cards to see in a reading," Angela murmured, looking wary. "The Five of Cups. Sadness; grief; disappointment; regret. This is a warning to you, Varden," Angela added, her cheery voice dropping to one of seriousness. "Tread carefully! This is not a card of hardships you are currently facing, but those you will come upon if you do not change your ways in time."

"What ways?" Nasuada asked, eyes wide.

Angela leaned back, shaking her head. "That, my dear, I do not know." She flipped over the next card, slowly, and let out a little breath. "This is a card symbolizing someone close to you. The Four of Swords – there will be a time, very soon, for mental clarity and serenity for this person. This peace will affect everyone for the better; including yourself.

"And finally," she murmured, sounding exhausted as she turned the last card over, "The Seven of Wands… it means that the time of fear has come… and you must fear, but in that fear you will find your courage."

Nasuada was shaking at the end of the reading. There was so much terror, so much hatred and sadness coming. She met Angela's eyes and managed to say with a clear voice, "Angela… I will do whatever I can to lead the Varden though these troubling times."

Angela's face split into a smile and Solembum flipped his tail back and forth. The werecat glanced up at her and purred_, There, my ruler, is your courage._

…

Saphira found Eragon after close to ten minutes of hard flying. He had run quite a distance; farther, perhaps, then even an elf could have done in the same time period. She had almost missed him, however; he had curled himself into a tiny ball, his tan leathers making him appear very much like a sandstone rock.

Saphira landed a safe distance from the unmoving Rider. Yet even from twenty yards away, she could feel his pain radiating off of him, could almost taste it at the back of her throat.

_Eragon_, she began softly, taking a small step closer, testing the waters.

_Stay back_! He lashed out, a sudden flare of anger entering his voice. _Don't come near me!_

Saphira lowered herself to the ground, struggling to keep her voice free of pity. That would only enrage the boy even more. _Eragon, I will lay right here until you allow me to come closer. I will wait here for as long as I need to._

An hour passed in silence between the two before Eragon stirred. _…Saphira_?

She was at his side in an instant. _I am here, little one._

_Why does she choose to torment me so? _He asked, crawling to her side and burying his face against the warmth of her flank. _I apologized for the Blood Oath ceremony, and yet… yet she maliciously flaunts all I cannot have while pretending to be my friend!_

_Calm yourself, little one_, she cooed gently, folding her wing over him. He was suddenly ensnared in a warm hibernaculum, pressed against her tender under-belly and membranous wing. The feeling calmed Eragon, made him feel secure - loved. His breathing slowed and Saphira nodded sagely.

_Now_, the wise dragon began, _listen to me for a moment, Eragon. Arya is under quite a bit of stress, as well. She sees you, struggling against these emotions raging within you, and she feels terrible for it. She has her own longings that she suppresses, Eragon, but she has no one to share them with, unlike you. They are eating her alive inside. She is not so wise as to know how to tend a broken heart or to hide emotions without repercussion._

_What she did with you was not to tempt, tease, or torment. Her intentions were innocent, though ill thought out. She only meant to bind your friendship, which has suffered greatly in the past few months. She did not mean to scare you._

Eragon closed his eyes and moved closer to Saphira_. Saphira… I love her. I have tried to stop myself, tried to distract my thoughts with other women… but it's impossible. The touch of her hands, her scent… it all bewitches me._

_I know, my dear heart,_ she murmured, a piece of her dying with every moment Eragon suffered through sadness. _All I can do is to beg you remain patient. Give Arya a chance to win your trust back._

_I do trust-_

_No, you don't, _Saphira argued calmly_. Your reaction to her today proved that. No, Eragon, you two must build another foundation for your friendship to rest on. A stronger one. Until you two do this, nothing will change._

Eragon was silent for a long moment before whispering aloud, "Saphira, I felt it again. The pleasure in feeling another's pain. The hatred… Oh gods, Saphira, I hated Arya. I wanted to hurt her for a split second. Saphira, it's beginning to take over. I think I'm going crazy."

_Nonsense_, Saphira reasoned reassuringly. Yet a part of her couldn't help feeling alarmed at his words. Something terrible was happening. A cold dread took root within her, making her shiver. What if Eragon did become the next Galbatorix? Saphira was quick to push the thought aside, however. Never.

Closing her eyes, Saphira said the only words her aching heart could form_. Love keeps us all sane, Eragon. As long as there is love in your heart, and you truly see things in life worth protecting, then you will remain a good person._

_But… what if? What if I do become like him in the end?_

Saphira lifted her wing and nuzzled Eragon's face with her snout. _Whatever happens, Eragon, I am always on your side._

…

Arya sat down heavily in the dirt, crossing her legs. The fire sitting before her had all but diminished into a pile of smoldering logs. Feeling restless, she glanced into the remains and whispered, "Brisingr." The fire flared, the orange flames tinged green as they rose to into the air.

"Quite impressive," a deep voice rumbled behind her.

Arya glanced over her shoulder, feeling a sad smile slowly stretch across her face. "Orik. It seems I haven't seen you in ages. Sit with me?"

The little dwarf came to her side, plopping down in the dirt. There were ghosts of tears on his cheeks and Arya was reminded how hard he had taken Hrothgar's passing. Who was she to be worrying about her love life – or lack thereof– when there were so many other things to be focusing on?

"It won't be long until we reach Farthen Dur," Orik murmured, scraping at the dirt edgily. "Do you think the funeral will be to his liking?"

Arya forced another smile. "Hrothgar would have been pleased for a soldier's burial, as long as his closest friends and companions were among him."

Orik nodded, dwelling on her words for longer than she had anticipated. After a few moments, however, a grin covered his face and he turned to Arya. "So, have you and Eragon patched thing up yet?"

Arya sighed, shaking her head. "Oh not you, too. I have been given the fourth degree from just about everyone today… and what about? Eragon."

Orik chuckled, patting her hand with his. "Elf, you amuse me to no end. Why would that be, do you think? Perhaps everyone else can see through your flimsy façade and knows you want him as much as he wants you." 

Arya's eyes widened at his words. "Orik!" she exclaimed in a shocked undertone. "What are you implying?"

"No need to act pure and innocent," Orik laughed as he stood. "But think on this. You say that you will not allow a foolish relationship during a war. But what if one of you dies during this war and is lost forever? Isn't it better to lose a love after knowing its wonders instead of questioning yourself daily about, 'What if?'" He fondly patted her shoulder again before murmuring, "Think on it, Arya. That is all I ask."


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

Revelation

_"Why, Murtagh?"_

_The voice was deep—a male's—but still contained a hint of boyish quality. The speaker, Murtagh could tell, had not completely matured yet. He was close, though._

_"Why, Murtagh?" the voice said again. He opened his eyes only to immediately close them again. There had been light—pure, white, all-encompassing light; light so bright that it had hurt. But something made him want to open his eyes again, so he did—but more slowly this time._

_There was the light again, nearly blinding him though his eyelids were barely open, and beyond it…A boy. _No, _he thought, _a man. Or is it?_ He could not be sure. He opened his eyes the rest of the way—it hurt, but he was getting used to it—and saw none other than—_

_"Eragon?"_

_"Why, Murtagh?" Eragon repeated._

_"Why what?" Murtagh was feeling stupid. There seemed to be some point, some crucial fact that he was missing. "Why what?"_

_And then someone else appeared. Dark hair, dark skin—Nasuada. His stomach flipped as she came into view._

_"Why, Murtagh?" she asked, her voice low and solemn. There was sadness there, so deep and thick that Murtagh felt he was swimming in it. _

_"Why what?!" he screamed. "What do you want from me?!"_

_"You have a choice." Both people said it in unison. "You have a choice."_

_"No I don't!" He was sobbing now. "You don't understand! He knows my name! I don't have a choice!" Sobs wracked his body and he crumpled to the ground. _The pure white ground,_ he thought absently. _So bright…everything is white in here—hurts…

_"You always have a choice." And now there was somebody else there. Murtagh squinted. The man was very short, but he had a stocky build and there was a fierceness about him that unnerved Murtagh. The man looked vaguely familiar. _

_And then Murtagh remembered the Burning Plains—remembered the red lightning as it shot out from his palm—remembered feeling it his its mark, annihilating the life there._

_"Everyone has a choice," said the little man. And suddenly, inexplicably, Murtagh knew who it was; Hrothgar, the dwarf king._

But no,_ he thought. _Not anymore. I killed him…

firepaindeath

_Murtagh jumped. Something else had entered the dream…but it was a bad presence—full of blackness and oil and writhing snakes and dripping venom._

killhimkillhimkillhim

There it is again! _he thought. "Somebody help me!" he cried, but the people in front of him simply stared, waiting for something._

blooddeathkillhimkillhim

_"Everybody has a choice," the trio said, and Eragon began to walk toward Murtagh._

killkillkillkillkillkillkill

_The voices were louder now, and the closer Eragon came to Murtagh the more Murtagh wanted to hurt him, to maim him—to kill him._

_"You don't have to listen to it, Murtagh," Eragon said. "There is always another choice."_

diediediediediediedie

_And then he saw it—a great, shapeless cloud of darkness rising up, up, up from beneath the ground. It was behind the people and they couldn't see it, didn't know it was coming for them. Murtagh tried to tell them but found that he could not speak._

DIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIE

_And it began to move subtly, closing in on the people—his friends—expanding its bulk until it was an enormous half-circle moving steadily toward them. The whiteness around it seemed to fade and lose its luster, and somehow Murtagh knew that where the cloud had passed there was nothing but darkness. As it drew nearer Murtagh could see, deep within the cloud, hundreds of thousands of mouths screaming and gnashing their wickedly sharp teeth. The screams reached his ears then—the death cries of countless soldiers in battle; wives screaming in agony as they learned that their husbands would never return home; children screaming for mothers and fathers and friends that they would never see again; and there, deep in the center, was Murtagh's face, crying out in agony as the world fell apart beneath him and he had to sprint to keep up with the solid pieces._

_But the people did not hear the screams, did not see the terror coming for them, were blind to the horrors which would soon descend from above to engulf and consume them completely._

_And Murtagh did the only thing he could think to do. He reached down to his hip and drew Zar'roc._

**DIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIE**

_And he leaped. His jump carried him past the people, who turned their heads to follow him, _(Maybe now they will see it,_ he thought_) _and across the small patch of glowing white that was all that remained between the people and the darkness. _

**IWILLKILLYOUALL**

Murtagh would remember the dream—vividly—when he awoke. He would remember the people, the screaming mouths, the gnashing teeth—and he would remember the pain, the horrible pain, as he leaped into the blackness. But beyond the pain there was something which he would not feel, something sweet and glorious. Murtagh's eyes would open just as he reached the threshold, the end of the darkness—just as he would glimpse the light behind it—and it was then, in that instant of waking, that he would realize what had to be done.

Eragon's eyes moved spasmodically beneath their lids as he slept, darting to and fro as his mind was dragged deeper into the clutches of a nightmare.

Saphira opened her eyes slowly. _Something is wrong. _She turned her head to stare at Eragon, and in that instant the boy sat up, opened his eyes, looked directly at her, and whispered—

"I will kill you all."

And then he collapsed back onto the bed, his body shaking uncontrollably.

Somebody was pressing something cool and wet against his head. There were voices, too, but they spoke in a language he had never heard before.

"Owzee?" That voice was rough and growly. He didn't like it very much.

"Eez wing etter." He liked that voice. It was soft with a slight trill to it, as though it were on the verge of singing.

Then there was a growl and a whining noise off to his left. _A dog,_ he thought. _I like dogs…_

The next time he awoke he felt wind rushing past his face. He didn't open his eyes but he could feel that he was securely bound to whatever he was sitting on. He went back to sleep.

His eyes felt sore, as though he had been crying, and his lids were crusty and tender. He wiped a hand across them slowly and winced. His face was hot—very hot. Then he heard a noise to his right and he opened his eyes slightly and turned his head toward it.

He saw a thin bar of light, and then it was blocked by something. But the something soon passed and the bar of light was back. Eragon ran another hand across his eyes and opened them further. The light hurt, but at least he could see now. Arya was kneeling beside Eragon's sleeping mat, her back to him. He could hear sloshing water and then Arya turned toward him, a wet rag clasped in one hand. Her eyes widened when she saw that he was awake.

"Eragon!" she gasped. Eragon cringed at the loud noise—his head throbbed painfully.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I did not mean to yell—here." She pressed the rag against his forehead. It was cool and soothing, and the dull ache in his skull receded slightly.

"M' head," Eragon croaked, his voice slurring. He squinted his eyes and tried again. "My head—hurts."

"Shhh. Don't speak." Arya's voice was soft—pleasing.

"Your voice's pretty," he mumbled. "You're pretty." From beneath the edge of the rag he could see Arya's skin turn a delicate shade of crimson. _Lovely,_ he thought dully. _Lovely and pink._ And he giggled.

He saw Arya's expression change instantly. Undisguised worry flitted across her face, a slight frown marring her perfect features. "Eragon," he heard her murmur softly, and the beautiful sound of her voice made him smile slightly, "do you know who I am?"

"Yes," he whispered, and suddenly he was consumed by an overwhelming desire to tell her something. What was it? Then he remembered. "I—"

But he choked. The words caught in his throat and he found that he could not say them. And then he remembered. _I made a promise._ He felt sadness well up inside of him yet again. He was beginning to remember things now—he remembered running as fast and as far as he could, screaming at the top of his lungs, remembered the anger and pain and hatred—

"Eragon!" Arya's voice was barely more than a whisper but it caught his attention. He looked up at her and realized that his breath was coming heavy and fast. He could feel hot blood suffuse his face as the emotions began to resurface. "Eragon, calm yourself!"

Something in the way she said it made him stop. His breathing slowed and he looked back up at her. But something was wrong with her face…

He tried to focus, found he could, and looked at her. His eyes widened in shock. _Why is _she_ here?! _he thought. _She isn't supposed to be here!_

Trianna looked down at him, her lips turned up into a seductive smile.

"No," Eragon mumbled, his words slurring again. Trianna rested her hand delicately upon his cheek. "No," Eragon said louder and more forcefully. "Not…you…" Trianna leaned in closer to him. "_NO!"_ he shouted, and suddenly it was not Trianna but Arya once again, backing away from him. Eragon blinked. He felt confusion cloud his thinking, and his head began to throb again.

Arya's face was twisted into a mask of confusion and…Eragon stared disbelievingly. _Hurt._

"No, Arya, wait…" he began as she started to leave. He could feel the black rage beginning to consume him again. Arya turned hesitantly back to him and the rage subsided. Eragon's head began to clear again. _I need help,_ he thought desperately. _I'm going insane._

"Help me," he said softly.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

Giving In

Tiny worlds, Arya thought as she examined the rain

_Tiny worlds, _Arya thought as she examined the rain. _They are like tiny worlds in a kamikaze dive for the ground, each one soaked in pain. _Arya wanted them to engulf her, crash into her the way they did the miniscule canvas tents. Even her mind, old in comparison to most, could not handle this remarkably human emotion. She could feel the love, pain and regret swimming in her veins, torturing her. She could do nothing but submit to it. If she continued to push him away, she feared that their loves would be too great – a holocaust of emotions that would ravage both of them, leaving behind mere ashes of the people consumed.

She turned slowly from the tent opening, eyes focusing on the boy… no, the man before her. He was shirtless, body sleek and glistening with sweat. He looked pathetic, face exhausted by grief, rag barely maintaining its spot on his forehead. His muscles bunched, preparing, she suspected, for her refusal. And his eyes… she couldn't look at them. But, even in that state, he was every inch the hero.

_"Help me," _he had pleaded, breaking into the armor she had placed around her heart. She felt it tumble inside her, the great fortress that was Arya becoming a simple mound of rubble. _How could he do this to her? A human? _

She could imagine that he saw the war going on inside her, despite her efforts to mask it. Maybe he didn't see it in her face, but in the moment where her feet shuffled in the sand, indecisive. Every muscle in her body tensed as he rose onto his elbows, pulling the rag away from his face.

His eyes shone and Arya knew that neither one of them could handle another rejection. Another chip in their friendship and she feared it would be no more. And a life without Eragon… could she handle it?

She moved toward him, kneeling gently beside his mat. She wasn't sure when it had begun to rain, or when Eragon had begun to mean so much to her. "Lay back down," she whispered, voice barely above a murmur.

She placed her hand on his chest, putting a slight amount of pressure there. For a moment, his body refused to go down. _No, don't be defiant now, Eragon…_ Then, he collapsed back onto the mat, eyes closing momentarily to regain his composure.

Arya picked up the discarded wash cloth, tossing it into the bowl of water. She reached out a hand to smooth over his trembling shoulder, but thought better of it and coiled them together in her lap.

"Arya," he said sadly. "I will… _try _to put aside my feelings for you." Eragon's teeth clenched together as he spoke the words, as if some distant pain still enveloped him. "I can not live like this. My mind torments me." Eragon closed his eyes, turning his head away from her.

For a moment, they both fell silent. The rain beat frantically onto their canvas covering. Once again Arya's gaze was drawn to the sparkling droplets outside, so much like tears that it pained her.

"Eragon…" her words left her and she knew that she had no other choice.

…

Distantly, invisible to the world below, Saphira swirled through the clouds. She could feel the storm raging below her, knowing that it wasn't merely a natural occurrence, but a battle of wills. Eragon's emotions, so powerful and ancient, buried themselves inside her, causing her bones to ache.

She wanted to dive through the clouds, past the lightning streaks and to his rescue. But, alas, she knew she couldn't. Eragon needed to be strong, needed to be the man she knew he was.

_Saphira? _The elven voice echoed inside her mind, so unexpected it caused her to falter in flight.

Upon regaining her control, Saphira asked softly, _How is Eragon? I feel- _Her thought died off, head hanging in sadness. She could feel him, suffering inside. She knew his pain was great but it was also internal. Saphira knew that she could do nothing for the boy. His life rested in the hands of a stubborn and strong-headed elf.

_He's awake… I, Saphira… I was hoping that you would allow me to voice an issue that has been troubling me. _Arya's voice held a weight that Saphira couldn't measure and didn't understand.

_What is it? _Saphira questioned, worry for her Rider already causing her to divert her course and turn back.

_I'm tired of us both suffering. Life, I feel, is too short – even for us Elves. We are at war… what happens if I die tomorrow._

_What are you asking, child? _Saphira questioned quietly, her voice holding a small amount of hope.

_I'm asking your permission to be with Eragon, to love him as a human woman would love him, to love him as an elf. _Arya's voice shook slightly, but held no sense of regret or false pretenses. Saphira could feel Arya's relief at finally and truly admitting her feelings for the young Rider.

Looping in the air, Saphira let out a jubilant whoop. Already, she could imagine Eragon's horrible dreams disappearing, replaced by only joy and content. This elf was what he needed to be whole, what he needed to forget. He would be stronger with her by his side, that Saphira knew. _Arya, I have been waiting for this moment. Do you even need to ask? _The dragon could feel an immense burden lifted. Saphira's eyes shone brightly as she thought, _perhaps there are good things in times of war as well._

…

Arya brushed Eragon's hair from his forehead, feeling his heated skin. He hadn't spoken much since his confession, instead laid there with his eyes gripped tightly shut. Arya wondered if it wasn't in attempt to squeeze away the nightmares.

She reached for his hand, holding it tightly in hers. Eragon raised his gaze, lips barely distinguishable from the rest of his pale face. She could tell he was suffering in his emotional turmoil, drowning in it.

A cool wind whipped inside their tent, bringing with it a splattering of icy raindrops. They hit Arya across her cheek and splashed Eragon's chest but neither flinched from the wintry daggers.

Eragon pulled his hand from hers and lifted it ever so slowly, as if he was Atlas and had to raise the burden of the world. His fingertips grazed her cheeks softly before curling in on themselves. "I'm sorry," he murmured, ready for retreat.

"No," Arya caught his fingers, holding them to her face. "Don't pull away, not this time." She sighed heavily, closing her eyes. "I have pulled away enough for the both of us. Now, it is time." Opening her eyes, the sea-green pools deepened, allowed Eragon to see for the first time all the emotions that she had been hiding.

His eyes widened and he pushed himself into a sitting position, bringing himself closer to Arya. His hand fell to her side, resting lightly on her leather-encased legs. Hesitating briefly, Eragon asked, "Do you mean it?"

Smiling hesitantly, Arya nodded. She meant this one statement more than she had meant anything in her life. She had finally convinced herself that the age between them was just a number in comparison to happiness.

Eragon felt, for that moment, that all his vengeance, bloody desires, and hatred dispersed. He pulled her toward him, bare skin meeting with her body and for a moment, he couldn't breathe.

Arya touched his arm lightly, drawing away from him. He was reluctant to let her go, mumbling, "I have dreamed of this."

"So have I, figuratively speaking." Arya felt Eragon's hand slid into her hair, smoothing out her heavy tresses. She turned into it, reveling in the feeling of his touch. "For far to long," she added, turning her attention back to his face. She leaned forward, inhaling his earthy scent, before catching her lips with his.

Outside, the crashing worlds halted, slowly allowing the sun to peak through the clouds. Even if, on the horizon, darkness loomed more dangerous than either Elf or Rider alike had ever imagine.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

Conquer Your Fear

The kiss was soft—a gentle press of lips—but he felt the meaning, and the weight, behind it. It lasted for a long while, yet the ending came abruptly and far too quickly for Eragon. But as the kiss ended and Arya's face pulled away from his, she lifted the sheet covering him and slid beneath it, pressing her body against his and kissing him again. She laid her head on his chest and, closing her eyes, caressed him with gentle hands until he fell asleep once again.

He dreamt again. The darkness returned, full of screaming faces and gnashing teeth, and he was afraid. But this time the dream ended differently; a beam of light struck from the heavens, lancing through the darkness, and he could feel Arya's body pressed against his, her arms wrapped around him and her face buried in the hollow at the base of his neck. He looked up and saw, to his astonishment, that all the people who had given their lives to protect him were now battling the blackness; aside from countless soldiers he saw Garrow, Brom, Ajihad, Hrothgar, and several elves which he had never seen before but felt as though he knew from somewhere. The crowd grew steadily as more and more spirits from the past appeared to defend Eragon even in their deaths.

The ghosts pushed the darkness back relentlessly, and the light continued to burn through it until there was nothing left. When it was over Arya whispered for him to wake up and, for the first time since the battle at the Burning Plains, he did so without fear and without a heavy heart.

The first thing he noticed upon regaining consciousness was that Arya, still clad in her leather armor, was still pressed against him. Her head rose and fell slowly and gently with each breath Eragon took. The warmth from her body was both pleasing and comforting, and his mind seemed to clear when she entered his vision.

Arya raised her head. "Did you sleep well?" she murmured softly.

Eragon nodded. _I must look terrible,_ he thought. But if this was true, Arya gave no sign that she had noticed. He pulled her closer, so that her head was beneath his chin, and closed his eyes. _And smell terrible, too._

As he laid there, his hands moving slowly and softly up and down Arya's body, his mind strayed suddenly to Saphira. Smiling, he moved his mouth next to Arya's ear and whispered, "Come with me." Then he leaped from the bed and, still shirtless and shoeless, dashed out into the rain.

Eragon felt charged with energy as the rain pelted his body, opening his senses and clearing away the last remnants of fog which had still lingered on the borders of his mind. He stood for a moment, face turned upward and arms outstretched, before dashing off toward Saphira, who lay asleep a small distance from the camp. When he reached her he leaped into the air and whooped. Saphira's eyelids jerked open as Eragon's arms encircled her thick neck.

"I missed you," Eragon whispered, and hot tears leaked from his eyes to mingle with the falling rain. He pressed his face against her scales and was silent.

_Little one…_ Saphira faltered, unable to say more, and swung her head around to fully encompass Eragon's torso. But for the pattering of the rain and the deep thrumming emanating from Saphira's chest, there was silence. After a moment Saphira sensed another presence and opened one eye; standing before her was Arya. _Thank you,_ she said privately to the elf, and Arya bowed her head to the dragon.

_No,_ said Arya. _Thank _you. And then, in a move that elicited a startled snort from the dragon, Arya embraced Saphira's neck next to Eragon. Eragon looked up and abashedly wiped away his tears with the back of his hand, but Arya only smiled and laid her head on his shoulder.

After a time Eragon turned to look Saphira in the eye. _Let's go flying._

The familiar sensation of vertigo hit Eragon as Saphira spun in midair, making his heart skip a beat and sending a rush of adrenaline through his body. Arya's arms tightened around his waist as Saphira performed the maneuver a second time, yet Eragon could feel that the elf was unafraid.

Saphira brought her wings in close and shifted into a dive, roaring with pleasure. Rain flew upward into Eragon's eyes as they gathered speed. Saphira spread her wings wide at the last moment and gravity pressed her passengers tightly into her saddle until at last she leveled off mere feet above the tops of the forest trees.

Eragon nudged against Arya's mind and, when she allowed him to enter her thoughts, said, _Relax for a moment; I want to show you something._ He spoke briefly with Saphira and then settled down into the saddle and let his thoughts go blank. Moments later his mind joined with Saphira's and he could see through her eyes. The sensation brought back a multitude of memories from his past, most of which were unhappy ones. He pushed them away.

Eragon felt the wind whip past Saphira's face and push against her wings, and he felt her exhilaration at both flying and Eragon's return to sanity. He felt the mental equivalent of Arya drawing a sharp breath of excitement, felt her happiness, her ecstasy…and her love. That emotion affected him the most; her love was what he had longed for ever since he had first met her, and now…now she had finally admitted that she, too, felt for him.

Eventually he receded from Saphira's mind and lapsed into deep, quiet thought, until he felt Saphira begin to slow and descend. He looked up and the image of a clearing met his gaze. Saphira made for it, expertly pivoting her wings this way or that way until she landed with a soft _thud_ upon the soft grass. The rain had lessened to a drizzle and, by the time Eragon had leaped off of the saddle and helped Arya down, it had stopped completely.

_I believe I shall go hunting,_ Saphira murmured to Eragon and—after playfully nudging her Rider with her head—leaped into the air, her talons leaving deep gouges in the wet earth.

Eragon turned to Arya, whose hand he still held and murmured, "Let's find some place dry." She nodded and they moved into the forest.

The trees were so thick that it did not take long to find what they were looking for. Eragon sat down on a dry patch of earth. Despite his recent recovery, he felt aged; every movement he made seemed a small yet not unfelt effort, and his mind seemed to move torpidly. He leaned back and stretched, his spine popping as it bent, and lay down with his hands behind his head. His current state, he knew, could be attributed to his recent detachment from reality; he just hoped that the sickness would not have a lasting effect on him.

The thought that he would be permanently damaged troubled him; he had just recovered from Durza's final gift. How would he be able to fulfill his legacy and restore peace to Alagaësia if he was to remain a shattered wreck? As the thoughts passed through his mind he felt the darkness begin to return, clouding his thoughts and shifting his mood to one of anxiety and fear.

Arya must have sensed his inner struggle for she suddenly drew close to him and laid a hand upon his chest. Eragon blinked and stared up at her and the darkness began to recede.

"Sit," Arya murmured softly, and he did, crossing his legs and resting his forearms on his knees. She knelt behind him and began to gently knead the muscles in his shoulders. Eragon's memory flashed back to the last time Arya had done this and his breathing quickened; but he cast away the anxiety and his breathing slowed. The feel of Arya's strong, slender fingers moving against his flesh calmed him until his respiration slowed to a normal level.

"There is a story we elves tell each new generation," Arya whispered, and her breath tickled the back of Eragon's neck. "It is the story of Rellen, an elf who lived a long, long time ago; so long ago that we had not yet made our peace with the dragons." Arya's hands moved deftly across his shoulders and up his neck.

"Rellen was a warrior of great renown; he had slain many of the terrible beasts and creatures which plagued Alagaësia in her early days, and he had saved a great many lives in his own lifetime. Whenever a threat arose, Rellen was sure to be at the forefront of the elven response. So famous did he become that it was not long into his life that nearly everyone sought after his help."

Her touch shifted down to the hollow between his shoulder blades, radiated outward, and moved back in again. "But a terrible thing happened; one day, while he was patrolling the borders of his village, there was an attack. His wife and children were killed by a wayward nightmare creature before the thing slipped away and disappeared.

"Rellen was heartbroken. So great was his mourning that his masters were forced to relieve him of his duties. The people of his village attempted everything they could think of to ease his pain but to no avail—Rellen was a broken man."

Eragon had lapsed into a trance-like state. He still heard and understood Arya's words, but he experienced everything else with a sense of detachment, his sole focus the woman behind him and her tale. Distantly, he sensed Arya move next to him and gently lower his head into her lap so that he was lying on his side. Her fingers softly and slowly caressed his hair and face.

"As time wore on Rellen grew worse; he believed that his family was still alive and would come to visit him in the night. He was confined to his bed for most of the day. He rarely ventured outside of his house. And worst of all, he constantly blamed himself for what had happened. Though Rellen did not know it, he was going insane.

"Then, one day, during what was, for him, an unnaturally peaceful slumber, he dreamed of his wife. She appeared next to his bed and assured him that neither she nor their children blamed Rellen for what had happen. Then she showed him where the creature that had killed them dwelled.

"When Rellen awoke a change had come over him, though he did not remember the dream. He put on his armor and picked up his sword and went outside without knowing why. As if in a trance, he saddled his horse and rode off into what we now call the Spine."

And suddenly Eragon could see Rellen as the elf rode atop a massive black warhorse. Rellen rode on until he came to the mouth of a pit in the middle of a clearing. He dismounted and walked to the edge of the pit. Emotions slammed into Eragon and he felt himself jerk slightly under Arya's touch, but the sensation was distant and he paid little attention to it.

At the forefront of the mental assault was fear—unbridled fear as Rellen gazed into the blackness, the odor of rotting flesh bombarding his nostrils. The fear was so powerful that soon the elf—and Eragon—were consumed by it. Rellen curled into a ball and covered his face with his hands, his breath puffing from his lungs in short gasps. Eragon was distantly aware that Arya had stopped talking, and yet the vision carried on where she had left off.

As the fear—a roiling black mass which Eragon knew too well—threatened to overwhelm both him and Rellen, something happened. Rellen was visited by an apparition of his wife, glowing white and radiating warmth and love. At the same time Eragon felt Arya lift his head to her chest and cradle him in her arms, her cheek pressed against his forehead.

The fear was banished almost instantly and Rellen stood. He turned to his warhorse and unsaddled it. After giving the steed a final stroke across its forehead, he slapped its rump and the animal ran away through the trees. Left alone with nothing but the creature for companionship, Rellen stepped into the blackness and fell.

He landed with a splash in a pool of cold, oily water. Though the monster's dwelling was pitch black, Rellen could make out certain details; stalactites and bones chief among them. He drew his sword and followed the stench.

His path was a long and twisted one, full of turns and dead-ends, and many times the fear threatened to take hold of him again. Each time it did, though, Rellen's wife appeared, and Eragon felt Arya's comforting touch.

Eventually Rellen came to an enormous cavern. No light penetrated from the outside, but his elven eyes did not fail him. He looked around, attempting to locate the creature—for he was sure it was there—until his gaze fell once again on the center of the cavern, and he saw it.

Eragon screamed. He was not sure if it was a physical scream or one simply locked away in his mind, but he screamed all the same. In the center of the room sat…blackness. That was the only way to describe it. The thing was devoid of any light at all, and it made the dank gloom of the cave seem almost bright. Then, as Eragon watched, it shifted; it's mass began to writhe and pulse until, where only moments before the creature had been, Durza now sat. Eragon's heart beat against his chest like a blacksmith's hammer. Then the creature changed again, and this time it was Galbatorix.

The mad king raised a hand and pointed behind Rellen. Eragon turned to look, his mind begging him to stop even though he could not. Behind him lay Saphira's mutilated body…as well as the bodies of everyone he loved. He gasped for breath, his mind reeling, and ran toward them, tears flowing like a river from his eyes.

He stooped next to a body clad in black leather and turned it over. Arya stared up at him, but it was not the Arya he knew; her green, green eyes had glazed over and trickles of blood ran from her nose and one corner of her mouth. Her body hung limply in Eragon's grasp as he cried out in agony, holding Arya close to him—

_Fight it._

He barely heard the voice, but it registered in some distant part of his mind.

_It's not real._

He regained some control over himself and, gasping for air, looked around to locate the source of the voice.

_Fight the fear._

The whisper came from his shoulder, right next to his ear, but when he turned his head to find the speaker he saw no one.

_You do not have to live this way._

His mind began to clear and he found that he was able to fight the fear. He looked down at the body he held in his arms, at the bodies strewn all around him, but he no longer felt afraid.

_You do not need to live with the fear._

He placed Arya's body gently on the ground…and it disappeared. He turned toward the laughing figure of Galbatorix.

_Everyone has a choice._

Eragon felt the familiar weight of a sword at his hip and drew it.

_Make the right one._

He stared at Galbatorix and suddenly saw him for what he truly was—an old man who had lost much in his life. But that man had, somewhere along the line, made the wrong choice. Eragon would not make that mistake.

Eragon charged.

He opened his eyes. Arya's face was inches above his, and he placed a trembling hand on the side of her face. He pulled her closer to him and kissed her, full on, their lips moving and opening and closing against each others as though there would never be another chance for the moment again.

Somewhere off in the distance, a dragon roared.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

Reunion

Nasuada scrunched up her nose at the foul-smelling brew that Angela placed in front of her. It was a thick, mealy great and made Nasuada want to vomit. "You expect me to drink this? Angela, I trust you more than anyone, but this is asking a bit much…"

Angela smiled gently, running a hand over Solembum's sleeping head. "Now stop complaining, Nasuada, and do as you are told. There is something very important that you have to understand. Someone very important that you must talk with…"

Nasuada made a face. "And that someone happens to be at the bottom of his chalice?" Realizing that she was stalling and not knowing why, she picked up the goblet. Her hand shook. It was as if her body was trying to tell her that there was something wrong, that there was some vital part of this certain puzzle piece that she was missing.

Glancing up at Angela once more, she whispered, "I… Please make sure nothing happens to me." The words sounded pathetic, even to her own ears, and childish. Forcing herself to sit a bit higher, she added, "How silly, something happen to me? I don't know what has gotten me so nervous, Angela." She chuckled, a pale imitation of her usual humor, and drank the liquid down.

…

Flashes of color filled Nasuada's vision. She caught a glimpose of Eragon, just off to her left. When she turned to call to him, however, he was gone. A flickering image of Murtagh fluttered about, little stuttered jerks making him look as if he were having spasms, There was no grace in these movements.

And then he, too, was gone.

_What in the world is this? _Nasuada thought as glimpses of her past flashed across her mind in random sequences. Her third birthday, watching as the healers went to work on her severely wounded father. Her first boyfriend, with his coppery hair windblown and matted with sweat after training with the sword. And then there was the little Elva with those strange, sad eyes…

She saw her father, but this was not a memory. He was there, looking at her with such longing - a longing for home, for a loving daughter.

"Father?" she called softly. Memories continued to flash by behind him, but he alone stood without movement, without flickering.

"Nasuada," he breathed, sounding relieved to see and hear her again. "I have missed you."

Nasuada began to step forward, but her father held up his hand to pause her. "Nasuada, come no further. I do not wish to damn you to this world just yet."

"What world?" she asked, confused.

He smiled sadly. "The timeless place. The place our ancestors created for those who die before their work on this world is done. You, my dear, have much left for your young soul to finish. But you will never be able to finish such tasks with your current knowledge. You need the edge that I have had since I was about your age."

"I don't know what you mean, father," Nasuada began, eyes tearing up. "I can't… "I can't do this! I'm not strong enough! I know I will fail-"

"Nasuada!" her father cried angrily. "Is this the way I raised you? When did you stop being a fierce, headstrong warrior and become a weak woman?"

"When you died and left me to finish your war!" she returned angrily, venom filling her voice. She was shocked at the rage that leapt from her, confused as to how good it felt, how… _right_.

Her father smiled, large white teeth gleaming. "There is my little girl. Now, Nasuada, we have no more time together. You must find a journal I left back in the Varden. It will be in your chambers, hidden behind a rock. It's the fourth crevice from the top, on the far left. You must get it at all costs."

"But we are in Surda now, father," she murmured, wishing for the life of her that she had gone to the funeral like everyone else. That damn Trianna kept getting in the way! "I had to stay here to deal with the Trianna menace."

He nodded, as if he knew all that was happening. "Do not fight with her until you have the book I left. Have Arya leave the funeral early so that she may bring it back for you. She is quick and agile and knows the lands. She can defend herself if she is ambushed and serves you with unwavering loyalty."

Nasuada felt badly for calling on Arya's services so often, but she knew the elf would hardly hold it against her. These were trying times, and the only people that Nasuada could trust were few and far between. "Yes, father," she answered gently.

He smiled at her before murmuring. "I wish we could have had more time together. As a family. Maybe in the next life."

Nasuada nodded, swallowing past the lump in her throat. "So this is goodbye once again?"

He nodded, looking sorrowful. "I love you."

"I love you too, daddy."

…

Arya leaned back against the tree, her eyes closed and breath so slow Eragon thought she had ceased the function all together. Her hand laid gently in his, but there was something hard on her face.

"Arya?" he asked softly, worried. She had been so gentle, so close, so open with him only moments ago. She had helped him tackle his fears… and now here she was, being suddenly distant.

"One moment, Eragon," she replied, lips barely moving. Afte a few more moments, her face relaxed and she opened her eyes. The dark emerald of her gaze struck him dumb for a long moment. She finally smiled at him, saying, "I'm sorry, I was just having a memory."

"A memory?"

She nodded, moving closer and encircling herself in his arms. "Yes. Memories for elves are not like the memories humans have. Ours tend to come on very strongly, overtaking every sense. In a way, it completely overlaps our real world and the two become indistinguishable."

"I see…" Eragon took a deep breath, smoothing her hair back form her forehead. "What was your memory?"

She was silent for a long time before answering with a simple, "Faolin."

Eragon felt a barb of jealousy pierce him, although he knew he had no real reason to. After all, she was allowed to remember her old flame. They had been together for their entire lives; Eragon was even lucky that she'd gotten over Faolin and accepted him.

He had no reason to be jealous of a dead elf. Or so he continued to tell himself. "What was Faolin like?"

"He fancied himself a poet," she murmured with a faint smile. "Although he wasn't truly any good at it. He was a music lover, an art lover… he was very creative."

Eragon chuckled, to which Arya raised an eyebrow. "I just find it humorous," Eragon began, "that he was everything I am not."

Arya turned, her expression unreadable. "How do you come to that conclusion? You wrote a moving and utterly amazing poem for the Blood Oath Ceremony. You love to listen to music, and you are a fine dancer. You were awed by the beauty of the forests and the numerous tapestries in Farthen Dur. You are just as creative as he."

Eragon knew he was treading on a very thin line. He also realized when the elf was complimenting him. He offered her a smile, kissing her cheek gently. "Thank you, Arya Svit-kona. Now that you put it in this way, I have no idea what I was thinking. I am a true elf at heart."

This light-hearted response made Arya laugh, the tension gone. She leaned back into Eragon, watching the tree leaves bow with rain slow to trickle down. The sun was warm and dry, making Arya sleepy and contented.

Saphira trumpeted from a ways away, announcing her arrival and will to return to Farthen Dur.

"The funeral is tomorrow," Eragon murmured, feeling the beginning of sorrow trickling into his heart.

Arya nodded, getting to her feet and brushing off the back of her breeches. "Yes… I am glad I was allowed to come. The dwarves are a noble race, no matter what misgivings they have had with the elves… and their King was an amazing man."

The two made their way toward Saphira's sizeable bulk. As Arya climbed onto her back, Eragon murmured, _Did you get something to eat? _

_A few deer, but other than that pickings were slim, _Saphira replied.With a sneaky little smile on her reptilian face, she asked,_What about you, Eragon? Did you make the most of your time alone with your elf?_

Blushing crimson, Eragon climbed onto Saphira's saddle directly behind Arya. _Saphira, really. _

_What? I was only curious! _she exclaimed with an airy laugh. With that, the dragon pushed off from the ground, launching herself into the bright blue, cloudless sky.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Escape

The light cast by the guttering torches caught a flash of crimson and clung to it, as if in anticipation for what would happened next. The guards fell slowly to the ground, blood jetting and pulsing from the wounds in their necks and torsos to stain the cold, damp walls of the castle. One tried to call out for help, but found that all he could manage was a choking gurgle. As he fell, his face turned at an awkward angle and he saw his partner fall to the ground in a similar fashion.

Murtagh stepped from the shadows where the light had not reached, the Voices in his head propelling him steadily onward, and passed the corpses indifferently. He clutched Zar'roc tightly in his hand, ready for whatever should leap at him from the depths of the castle.

But nothing did, so he continued on his way. His face was haggard from many sleepless nights and sessions with the Ra'zac; his hair was greasy and unkempt; but his eyes held the hard, glaring light of determination. Not the determination of a madman, but that of a man who has but one thing to live for and wishes to see his sole task in life completed, uncaring of what may happen to him along the way.

_Go._

Murtagh nodded and continued on his way. His only worry was that Galbatorix would be made aware of the events that were transpiring in his keep.

_We will take care of that,_ the voices whispered. _Have no fear, Murtagh. Now make haste._

Eragon gazed down upon Alagësia. Saphira's body rose and fell beneath him, in time with her wing beats. The air rushed past Eragon's face, cold and biting, and small tears sprung from the corners of his eyes and blazed freezing trails across his cheeks. Thin strands of cloud whipped past him at random intervals, dampening his skin and sending a chill up his spine. But he registered none of this; something was happening.

Images darted through his mind—fleeting glimpses of what seemed like long-lost memories of blood and violence and death…but they were not _his _memories. Nor, he realized a moment later without knowing how the knowledge had come to him, were they memories at all.

He saw a flash of glittering crimson…stone walls…torches that popped and guttered in the darkness…blood splashing across the walls…

Eragon was afraid for a moment that, despite all that had happened to him lately, he was regressing back into his state of rage and hatred. But after a moment he knew that this was not true; he felt neither anger nor hate—only a sense of calm curiosity at the events unfolding in his mind. He continued to watch.

_This way._

Murtagh changed direction abruptly, darting to the left and running quietly down the dimly-lit hallway. At the end was an unremarkable door, but he knew better than to think something unimportant was behind it. He paused for a moment and, using his magic, felt for other presences on the other side of the doorway.

He found but one guard—and he was asleep. Murtagh could tell that the man was old. This fact confused Murtagh for a moment until he realized that Galbatorix would wish to make the location of this prisoner as unobvious as possible. Murtagh quietly opened the door.

The old man snored softly, his head resting upon his chest, a bowl of cold soup on the table before him. Murtagh closed his eyes and pressed two fingers to the man's temple. Nothing changed—but Murtagh knew that the man would not awaken for many hours, even if he was disturbed.

Now Murtagh turned at last to the final door, this one locked with several enormous logs. With a wave of his hand, Murtagh cast the logs aside as though they weighed nothing. He pushed the door open on squeaking hinges and stepped into the next room.

A door…something whispering to him…an enormous red dragon…

Eragon started abruptly in his saddle. Saphira jolted beneath him.

_Eragon! What is it?_ Saphira's voice was laced with worry.

_It's…_ Eragon faltered. _It's Murtagh. He's escaping with Thorn._

"What do you mean 'escaping'?" Arya asked skeptically once Saphira had landed. They were now in a secluded clearing a small distance away from the funeral party.

"I don't know," Eragon murmured, lost in thought. "It was as though…I had a glimpse into his mind for a moment, and I could feel and think everything he could. He's changed; that's all I know."

"Eragon, you have to be careful—this could be one of Galbatorix's traps."

Eragon looked up into Arya's face and saw the undisguised worry etched across her fine features—such an uncharacteristic display of emotion for her.

"I want to think that Murtagh is leaving of his own free will as well," she said softly, "but this just doesn't feel right."

Eragon nodded. "I know what you mean," he said, "but…I also know—I'm not sure how I do—that this is not a trap. Please, Arya, you have to trust me on this one."

Arya looked down at the ground, her arms crossed. Eragon could feel waves of anxiety radiating out from her and pulled her to him, embracing her gently. He felt the momentary flutter in his chest as he touched her.

"Trust me," he whispered into her hair.

"I do," she said quietly after a moment. "But I still worry."

"As do I," Eragon replied. "Now, let's go back to the rest of the group—they're probably getting anxious to leave."

They climbed onto Saphira's back and she leaped into the air in the direction of the caravan.

For what seemed the millionth time Murtagh glanced anxiously back over his shoulder. And for what seemed the billionth time the Voices comforted him. Murtagh turned back around and gazed ahead, but still he could not shake the feeling that he was being followed. He trusted the Voices, but…as much as he hated it, he trusted Galbatorix himself to appear any second even more.

He patted Thorn's neck absently as the great dragon's wings propelled them further away from Urû'baen. Murtagh was filled for a brief instant with hate as he gazed down at his dragon's scarred body. Hate not so much for Galbatorix, but for himself—for he knew, deep down, that he had been the cause of all the mighty creature's suffering.

_You're wrong, _whispered the Voices, but they said nothing else. Even so, Murtagh found a small amount of comfort in the words.

He hands drifted to Zar'roc at his side. Zar'roc, the sword that had taken so many innocent lives. Zar'roc, the sword of Morzan. Murtagh felt disgust at even the thought of his father. But for Zar'roc…for Zar'roc, Murtagh felt a sense of triumph; soon—very soon—the sword would be redeemed of his father's sins. Very, very soon.


End file.
